


Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow.

by withoutwords



Category: SKAM (TV)
Genre: Depression, Existential, Happy Ending, Internalised Homophobia, M/M, Mentions Of Infidelity, Recreational Drug Use, mental health, some self discovery, there's really not much physical intimacy in this one sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-12
Updated: 2016-11-12
Packaged: 2018-08-30 13:37:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8535253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withoutwords/pseuds/withoutwords
Summary: The walk back to school is long. His head and his feet and his bag feel heavier, and his skin burns with the thought of people staring. Strangers and students and friends all staring, like he has it printed big and bold across his forehead. Homo. Home Wrecker. Loser.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Set after Friday’s episode. I posted an idea on Tumblr about Even making Isak that movie – that is not what this is, but there’s something slightly similar in there in case you’re thinking I ripped myself off, haha.
> 
> Title from a Shakespeare quote because I am a total hack. Thanks, as always, for reading, beautiful fandom :)

_Lørdag_ _,_ _12:21_ _,_ _12:22_ _,_ _12:23_

He cries, and he cries and he cries some more.

Which is fine.

He’s no stranger to crying.

But then he thinks. _Alone with his brain_. And that’s the worst part.

The anger, the questions, the noise.

He sleeps.

_Søndag,_ _10:43_

Isak’s phone had died some time the day before, in between the constant, grating hum of missed calls and messages. It had been buried beneath the rubble, anyway, beneath his dirty clothes, and abandoned school books, and those magazines he’d stolen from Noora the other day.

When he’s finally stumbling out of his room (with a crusty mouth and a hollow hunger in his gut) it feels like crawling out of a hole in the earth. Like he thought he’d been buried alive to discover, actually, life still goes on.

Eskild’s sitting on the sofa, when he emerges, a bowl of chips in his lap. Isak doesn’t miss the way Eskild’s eyes flicker to the door, as if he’s expecting someone to join him.

“Oh, I thought - ”

“No,” Isak says, harshly, rubbing at his face. He beelines for the kitchen, to avoid the awkward, _okay, so why_ – because he doesn’t have answers for himself, he’s not sure how he’s supposed to make them up for someone else. He hasn’t got any food, and the milk he bought the other day has started to curdle, so he puts some water on to boil as if he knows what he plans to do with it.

What he plans to do at all.

“Isak,” Eskild says from behind him, and when Isak turns there are those eyes. Those knowing, pitying, gentle eyes that Isak has seen so many times. That Isak doesn’t deserve.

“Please, don’t,” he says with a shake of his head, folding his arms and ducking his chin and breathing out. A big, shaking breath that somehow, some way, is followed by tears – he thought he had cried them all out.

“Isak,” Eskild says again, and before Isak knows what’s happening Eskild’s arms are around him, and Eskild’s hushing him, and the two of them are swaying in the middle of the room. (It makes sense, since he’s so far out at sea.)

“I’m sorry,” Isak hears himself mutter into the crook of Eskild’s neck. “Fuck, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

_Mandag,_ _12:21_ _,_ _12:22_ _,_ _12:23_

He remembers the hint of warm tongue in his mouth.

He remembers the sting of rough nails in his back.

He remembers the soft lull of their voices; all the teasing, and the honesty, and the want.

He remembers, and it hurts, and he hates it, but still.

The truth is better than any lie he could tell himself.

_Tirsdag,_ _11:44_

The walk back to school is long. His head and his feet and his bag feel heavier, and his skin burns with the thought of people staring. Strangers and students and friends all staring, like he has it printed big and bold across his forehead. _Homo. Home Wrecker. Loser._ The music in his ears drowns out the in between, and he keeps his nose tucked into his laptop.

But then Even’s hovering there by his locker.

“ _Halla_ ,” he says, as if that makes sense. With his hood up and his lips all chapped and the sharp, cutting hollow of his throat - sometimes he just makes too much sense. “How are you?”

Isak knows he looks stupid, with his mouth half open and his heels dug in. He knows how simple it is to say, _fine_. He’s told his dad the same thing a thousand times. But he can’t. He can’t say he’s fine when he’s not. He can’t tell Even to leave when the urge to hit him is the same as the urge to pull him in and hold him close and maybe slip into that other universe.

Where the curtains are yellow and Even never left the room.

He can’t say fine. He can’t say fuck you. He can’t do anything without the threat of breaking down again. So he spins around, and starts to walk, and gets faster and faster until someone’s grabbing him by the shoulders and pulling him into a classroom. Jonas.

“Isak! What’s going on?”

“Huh?” Isak says, blinking, pulling away until the back of his legs hit against a desk. Everything spins just a little. “What?”

“I was calling you! Didn’t you hear me?”

“Shit, I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t hear you.”

“Who is that guy?” Jonas says, a softer voice now, and Isak can start to feel his skin go hot. He can start to feel it stew at his stomach, start to feel it rise up in his throat. “That Even guy?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes you do,” Jonas goes on, and he’s getting closer, and he’s stealing all the air. “I’ve seen you with him a few times now. Who is he?”

“I told you! He’s from Vilde’s - ”

“Kosegruppe, right,” Jonas says with a sting. “But that’s not true, is it?”

“I have to go,” Isak tells him, pushing up and pushing away and going anywhere. Anywhere but here. He ignores Jonas calling, ignores bumping shoulders, and he heads for the nearest exit without thinking.

Fuck percentage.

He’s not putting a number on this today.

 

_Onsdag,_ _16:56_

**fra Even**

can we talk?

please pick up

there’s stuff you should know

i’m really sorry

 

**fra Jonas**

I won’t keep asking if you don’t want me to

but I want to

I fucking care about you

I’m worried about you

answer

 

**fra** **Sana**

???

i’m not covering for you

you need to do the work

where are you???

 

**til Pappa**

can you write me a sick note

i haven’t gone to school

stress

 

_Torsday,_ _21:32_

They’re watching a documentary about sea turtles, Linn scrolling through the menu bar and getting more excited than she probably has a right to. Eskild’s browsing – with his bored face – through _Grindr_ and Noora’s doing something weird to Isak’s hair. She’d said she wanted to try and braid it, make it beautiful, make it happy; but she doesn’t seem to be having much luck. It doesn’t matter. It’s peaceful.

The doorbell rings.

“Uh,” Eskild says, once they’ve looked around at each other expectantly. “It’s not for me.”

“You’re the one trying to hook up,” Isak teases, kicking a foot out, and by the time Linn’s gone to answer the door they’re kicking, and kicking, and laughing. Isak’s lungs shake a little, like they’d almost forgotten how that felt. Laughter.

“Isak, it’s for you,” Linn calls, and the room’s suddenly quieter, suddenly colder.

It takes every ounce of courage he can muster, to go. It had been enough going back to school today. Enough walking the hallways in constant fear. Of seeing someone, of being seen. Of being pulled out from his shroud of denial.

He imagines Jonas, or his dad, or at worst, Even – but nothing would have prepared him for Sonja. The wavering, empty smile that she gives him, the pinning look. And maybe she’s thinking what Isak thinks too – _I don’t hate you, it’s not your fault. But I can’t hate him either. I can’t, I can’t._

“Hi,” Isak manages to say, though it comes out more like a breath.

“Hi, Isak.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I’m here for Even.”

“Why?”

“Because,” she starts, but then she lets out a little huff, tilting her head up, and it looks like she might start crying. Isak can’t handle more crying. “Because we’re friends. We’re _best_ friends. And even though he hurt me - ”

“He hurt you?”

“He broke up with me,” she says, and it sounds like, _you idiot_. “To be with you. I thought he told you that?”

“Yeah, but,” Isak starts, scratching at his eyebrow. Why’s he doing this? Why’s he talking to her? What is she? His messenger? “But then he … he hurt me too.”

“I know.” Sonja sighs. “It’s a thing that he does.”

“Then why … what’s the point?”

“The point?” she barks back, and there it is. The anger. He deserves it. He deserves a lot worse. “The point is that you care about him. And when you care about people you take the good with the bad. Don’t you?”

Isak tries not to think of his mother. Or his friends. Or himself. He tries not to think about the terrible things he said to Eskild, to Sana, to Even – he tries, but it’s useless, because that’s exactly what she means. Life’s not just booze, and parties, and sex.

Life’s the big things. Life's falling in love.

“There’s this,” Sonja says, handing a notebook to Isak, black and fraying and bent. “He was going to give it to you tomorrow but I decided to do it instead. He doesn’t know.”

Isak takes it. It feels heavier than his whole week did.

He clutches it to his chest.

 

_Fredag, 0.34_

It’s full of drawings, and pictures, and lyrics, and poems. It’s full of colour and confusion, photos and cuttings. There’s a joint stuck in there, falling apart, and a tiny little bag with a powder inside, underneath reading, _rosemary, lots and lots._ It’s a mess, like he’s thrown up all his feelings and smeared them across the pages.

Isak only wishes he could do the same.

He reads, and he pores and he savours. He feels it seep into his skin.

Then he gets to the last page, and he finds it. The script.

The thing he'd been waiting for.

An answer. 

 

_ the boy who couldn’t hold his breath under water _ _(how the movie should have ended)_

 

_(how I wish it ended)_

_(the truth)_

 

 **isak:** i’ve decided that I’m better off without mentally ill people in my life

 **even:** but I’m mentally ill

 **isak:** what do you mean?

 **even:** i mean I’m sick, sometimes, you know. my head gets sick. I think too much, or I don’t think at all, I can’t explain it, it can be scary, people get scared

 **isak:** i’m not scared

 **even:** no?

 **isak:** no. i love you

 **even:** yeah. that’s what I thought. I thought that you loved me.

 **isak:** because you love me too

 **even:** yeah. i do

 

_Fredag, 01:06_

**til Even**

I got your book

Sonja gave it to me

**fra Even**

she shouldn’t have

sorry

**til Even**

it’s okay

**fra Even**

it’s a lot

you can give it back

 

**til Even**

no

it’s mine now

 

**fra Even**

ok

good

it’s meant to be yours

 

**til Even**

_…_

_draft: are you mine, too?_

 

_Fredag,_ _15:34_

Isak sits with the boys at lunch. They talk about Vilde, and the football, and class. They talk about who owes who money, and argue. They talk about maths, and the teacher who smells, and which girl is prettier, do you think? They talk until it’s just a buzzing in his ears, but it’s gentle, it’s comfort, it’s warm.

They don’t talk about Isak.

(And maybe that’s the safest place for him to be, right now.

And maybe that will change.)

“Hi,” Jonas says when the last bell rings, and Isak’s fighting with his locker. “Are you going home?”

“Uh, no, I’m working.”

“Seriously?”

“Hey!” Isak laughs, elbowing him, dropping some books with a _splat_. “I’m a great worker. There’s blood sweat and tears.”

“Sure.”

“Halla.”

They both look up to see Even. He has his hair slicked back, and his glasses on his head, and he takes Isak’s breath away for so many reasons. For the hurt, and the fear, and the hope, and the lust. For knowing someone who can do all that at once.

“Uh, hi.”

Even flickers looks between Isak and Jonas, pursing his lips, looking smaller. He used to tower, and shine, and seem ethereal. But he's changed. He's open. He's real. “Are you going home?”

“Uh, no. I’m working.”

“Seriously?”

Jonas laughs. “That’s what I said.”

“I can’t believe it,” Isak mutters, fake offence, and they just look at each other, just look back and forth, and he supposes it’s time to step forward.  “Uh, Even, this is Jonas, Jonas this is Even.”

“Hi,” Jonas says, and he’s offering his hand, and

“Hi,” Even says, and he’s shaking it.

And Jonas is saying something, about seeing him on the weekend, about messaging him to tell him when he’s free. And Jonas is giving them a nod, and giving them a smile, and Isak’s not sure what’s happening, but he thinks.

It’s like his bones are settling back into place.

Same soul, same body, different Isak.

“Hi, again,” Even says once they’re alone, and Isak just rolls his eyes a little, fingering at the strap of his bag. “So, you got your book.”

“I did. _Takk_.”

“It’s - ”

“It’s not going to fix everything,” Isak cuts in, because it’s important that he gets that. Isak knows how Even's fingers feel on his skin. He knows how Even's mouth feels at his throat, the graze of his teeth and the bruising lips. He knows how warm it gets beneath the weight of him and the stuttering, broken sound he makes when he comes. But it's not enough. He needs to know _this_. “You need to – we should talk. A lot. "

“Yeah,” Even says, a fast nod of his head and a big grin on his face and Isak’s powerless. He just smiles back. “Please. Tomorrow.”

“Alright. Tomorrow.”

 

_Lørdag,_ _00:23_

**til mamma**

hi

how are you?

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr!](http://thefancyspin.tumblr.com) Please feel free to talk to me as we struggle through the next few days. So close, my loves, so close!


End file.
